


take your lies, and lay 'em on me

by ricewine



Category: The Voice (US) RPF, The Voice RPF
Genre: Angst, Infidelity, Last Time, M/M, Non-Chronological, Unofficial Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 06:45:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14868743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ricewine/pseuds/ricewine
Summary: Don't worry about the damage doneJust let those words roll off your tongueEven if you're lyin'





	take your lies, and lay 'em on me

**Author's Note:**

> A little more country songfic--make sure you listen to Dierks Bentley's 'Say You Do' before/during/after reading this fic. 
> 
> Apologies if this is choppy--about half of it was written six months ago, and I had all but forgotten about it until I got some nice comments on other work recently urging me to write more, so decided to finally buckle down and finish it. Not sure I'll actually satisfy the requests for more fic considering how depressing this is, but it's what I've got right now, so...have fun?
> 
> The "present day" parts of the story actually take place October 2015

“Blake…” Adam’s sighing, hesitating.

“I miss you,” Blake says, leaning in and kissing Adam’s neck. “Don’t you miss me?”

Adam doesn’t so much as shiver. “Come on,” he says. “We can’t do this.”

Blake leans back so he can look Adam in the eye. “Why not?” he asks, carefully. He knows the answer, of course he does. But part of him wants to hear Adam say it. Maybe because he never did before. Blake wouldn’t let him. And he doesn’t know what’s different now, just that there’s a dull ache inside him that needs it, somehow.

“Because I love my wife,” Adam says, and it sounds like he’s talking to a child, like he’s explaining something that’s simple.

Blake laughs hollowly. It’s never simple. “Doesn’t feel good to be on that side, huh?”

Adam shakes his head. “Don’t do that,” he says. “Don’t compare it like—”

“I’m just saying you didn’t seem to care when _I_ loved _my_ wife.” It’s low, he knows it’s low, but whatever. It fucking _hurts_.

“Yeah?” Adam snaps back. Adam always snaps back. “How’s your marriage going now?”

And Blake wants to be mad, but he deserves it, he knows he does. He looks down at his shoes, and tries to will himself to go. It’s over. Adam doesn’t want him. And when his feet are willing to move, he’ll go.

He hears Adam sigh.

“Look, I’m sorry.”

Blake doesn’t look up.

“That wasn’t fair,” Adam says. “You made a choice, Blake. You chose her. I’m making the same choice.”

Blake nods at the floor. He deserves that too.

“Can we just—”

“You’re not,” Blake says. He doesn’t mean to. It just comes out of him.

“What?” Adam asks, and Blake can hear the apprehension in his voice.

“You’re not making the same choice I did,” Blake says, and his voice has a definite wobble to it. “I was still with you.”

He looks up at Adam now, and he sees the look cross his face.

“You weren’t with me,” he says, and his composure is finally breaking, anger or sadness or something coloring his voice. “You hurt me.”

Blake swallows hard. He wants to apologize, but he doesn’t want absolution. He wants…he _wants_.

“Well, here’s your chance to get back at me,” he says, trying to put some humor in his voice. It falls flat, he’s sure.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Blake.”

“Let me worry about me,” Blake says. And he knows he _should_ worry about it, but he can’t even find it in him. He just _wants_.

“Besides,” Adam continues, as if Blake didn’t say anything. “It wouldn’t be the same. We were…you were…I don’t have feelings for you anymore.”

Blake ignores the stabbing in his gut.

“What if I don’t care?” he asks.

There’s a voice in the back of his head, a voice saying “don’t do this,” a voice asking what he’s trying to prove. Why he’s willing to hurt himself for one disingenuous night with Adam. And there’s another voice—one that has the answers. He doesn’t like to listen to that voice.

“I care,” Adam says.

“You really don’t miss me at all?” Blake asks. “You don’t miss how I could make you feel?”

Adam doesn’t answer, but looks away.

And here’s Blake’s in—and he shouldn’t do this, if he does this it’ll never be the same between them. And it’ll only hurt tomorrow. But he can’t stop himself, he just wants to feel Adam’s skin on his, pretend, even just for a night, that things have worked out like he wanted them to, like he didn’t blow his shot at happiness when he took the easy option three years ago. He wants to feel like he’s with Adam and things are easy and good, the way they should be.

“Adam…” he says, leaning in and pausing. Adam doesn’t close the rest of the distance between them the way Blake wants him to, but he doesn’t lean away either, so fuck it.

Blake kisses him, and there’s a moment where it feels like Adam is frozen under him, and it makes Blake ache, but then…Blake can’t tell if the tightness in his chest or Adam releases first, but in what feels like a single second, Adam’s mouth is open and Blake is kissing him like it’s his last chance—which it probably is. But Adam’s kissing him back with the same desperation, so he puts that out of his head and focuses on this moment. Here, now, Adam.

 

* * *

 

**December 2011**

 

It’s not like Blake meant for this to happen. It’s not like when he took the job on The Voice, when he started up this whole thing, when he first started joking around with Adam, he thought it would come to this—Adam’s lips, tongue, teeth on his neck, Adam shuddering beneath him on the couch. Blake is married. Happily married. He has no idea how this happened. But he’s not exactly trying to stop it either.

“Blake,” Adam pants, and it’s so hot that Blake could come just from the sound of his voice. Adam’s just so pliable and athletic and God, it’s really too much for any one person to handle. Blake kisses him, and Adam moans into the kiss and Blake thinks he could probably do this forever, stay here and avoid reality and mess around with Adam until he dies.

Adam ruts against him and it’s all Blake can do to keep from swearing. He doesn’t understand how they got from trading barbs at Blind Auditions to _this_ , but they did, and it’s better than Blake ever imagined it could be. Not that he imagined this. Much.

It’s just that sometimes when Adam’s watching one of his artists and they’re doing well, he has this intense look on his face, this look of total focus, like nothing could possibly tear his mind from the performance in front of him. And sometimes Blake wonders what else Adam would focus on that intently, and his imagination gets a little carried away, and suddenly Carson’s asking him for an opinion and he has nothing intelligent to say whatsoever. And then Adam laughs at him and that stupid fucking smile…

Okay so Blake’s imagined this a lot. But the reality is a whole other thing to be reckoned with. He hasn’t factored in Adam’s muscles—not overwhelmingly large but full of strength, or the feeling of Adam’s stubble against his neck. He hasn’t factored in how sure Adam’s hands are, how once they’re inside Blake’s underwear, it takes an embarrassingly short time for Blake to come. He certainly hasn’t factored in the size of Adam’s cock, and how badly he wants to taste it now he can.

Now it’s all real, it’s all sensation. Touch, taste, sound. It’s all so real, so vivid and rich, and over too fast. They lie next to each other, sticky and spent, and Blake can hardly believe it actually happened—he keeps glancing over at Adam, trying to resolve everything he just experienced and felt with the man lying next to him, still breathing heavily. Still looking fucking incredible.

“Hey,” he says, and the syllable sounds stupid, falls flat in the air that’s still heavy with what they’ve just done.

Adam smiles slowly, lazily. “Hey back.”

Blake can’t help it—he laughs. It’s all so strange, so silly. A year ago, they were strangers. Six months ago, they were coworkers. Two months ago, friends. Now…well, they’re something, that’s for sure. And it’s ridiculous, and it’s terrible—they’re both cheating. But Blake can’t bring himself to care, not right now, not while he’s still feeling so fucking good. He laughs for a little longer than is probably appropriate. Adam watches him with an indulgent smile on his face.

“You done?” Adam asks, once Blake’s finally stopped laughing.

“Sure,” Blake says, smiling. “Just thinking about…” he gestures vaguely at their bodies on the couch. “All this.”

Adam nods. “Funny?” he asks. He’s not smiling anymore, and the reality of what they’ve done sets in on Blake faster than he thought possible.

“Not really,” he says softly.

“No,” Adam agrees. He threads his fingers through Blake’s. “What do we do now?” he asks.

Blake sighs. He doesn’t want to confront that. He wants to make reality stop again. He wants to forget the consequences. So fuck it.

“Round two?” he asks, fixing a cocky smile on his face and leaning in to kiss Adam’s neck.

Adam shudders. “I guess that works,” he says, his voice shaking a little.

And that’s it. They don’t have to talk about it any more than that. Blake kisses Adam and it’s good and that’s all that matters right now.

 

* * *

  

Adam’s moving fast, but Blake wants to take his time, savor what he can get. He plants his hands firmly on Adam’s hips, anchoring him, setting the pace. It’s an old move, and he feels Adam’s old shudder vibrate through his bones. It’s a heady feeling, and one that makes Blake think Adam might miss him more than he says, might feel more than he admits to. And that’s a dangerous thought, but hell, this whole thing is dangerous. Blake might as well go for broke.

He shifts them, presses Adam back into the couch and keeps kissing him. And they’ve done this a hundred times, been pressed together on this couch. And they’ve done this a hundred ways, slow, fast, soft, hard, loud, quiet. But it feels different now, somehow. Adam is frantic, vibrating out of his skin, and there’s a tension in his muscles that Blake doesn’t recognize. There’s something _different_ , and Blake knows, absolutely knows. This is the last time.

He slides his hands up under Adam’s thin black t-shirt. God. He had thought he could never forget exactly how soft Adam was, the silkiness of the skin at the base of his spine. And yet somehow, it feels even better than he remembered.

Adam bites Blake’s lower lip, and it’s so fucking much, Blake wants to just rip off his clothes and dive in. But if this is the last time—and it is—then he’s got to make it all count, every touch, every kiss. Mostly for himself, so he can have this memory, so he can have it all in excruciating detail. But also, and he hates to admit this to himself, but also for Adam. If Adam’s giving him up for good, he’s going to have to know _exactly_ what it is he’s giving up. He’s going to have to ache for it, beg for it.

Blake tugs at Adam’s shirt, and it’s like Adam can’t lift his arms fast enough, and once it’s off, he’s pushing Blake up and off him and pulling at his shirt too.

Blake doesn’t want to do this on the couch. He wants to do this for real, take his time, make the last time the best time. So before Adam can pull him back down, he gets hold around Adam’s waist, and lifts. And _god_ , skin on skin feels so good, he’d almost forgotten, but he can’t focus on that, because he’s carrying Adam towards the stairs now. And it’s not as easy as it used to be, when he was in practice. Even then, they hardly ever made it up all the stairs that way, so Blake cuts his losses and sets Adam down on the first step.

And for a moment, Adam just stands there, looking at Blake. And this is it, this is the moment to turn back. Blake knows it. They’re not touching, they’ve lost the momentum. And they still haven’t done _too_ much. Adam could walk away right now with minimal guilt. And Blake can’t make him do otherwise.

But Adam just looks at him, brow furrowed, for what feels like eons, but can’t be more than a few seconds. And Blake doesn’t know what Adam’s looking for, or if he finds it in Blake’s eyes, but suddenly he’s turned around and is dragging Blake upstairs. Blake follows eagerly.

 

* * *

 

 

**March 2012**

 

“Get up.”

Adam’s tapping his chest rhythmically with one finger.

Blake doesn’t open his eyes. “Shhh,” he says, squeezing Adam tighter. It’s warm and the sun isn’t hurting his closed eyes yet, which means it’s too early to wake up. He only gets to spend so many mornings with Adam, and he likes to make the most of them. Adam, on the other hand, likes to twitch.

“You’ve got to get up,” Adam insists.

Blake sighs and cracks an eye open. “What?” he asks.

“Your phone’s blowing up.”

Blake sighs and wraps his arms even more completely around Adam, nuzzling into him. “And?”

Adam just looks at him. And suddenly, the morning sun isn’t so warm, and the light isn’t so soft, and he isn’t so cozy in bed with his…with Adam. Because Blake can hear exactly what Adam isn’t saying. He hears it perfectly in his head, in Adam’s voice, emphasis and all. _It’s **her.**_

And the worst thing about it is that it makes him mad. Adam didn’t even say it out loud, but just knowing he wanted to pisses Blake the fuck off. Because that’s what they are, it’s what they’ve always been, and he’s not the only one. When Anne calls, Blake doesn’t sulk and moan and whine. Because Blake knows what this is. And he thought Adam did to. Adam’s supposed to.

Blake sits up, grabs for his boxers, and sits on the edge of the bed putting them on. Facing away from Adam.

His phone is, in fact, blowing up, and it is, in fact, Miranda. And she’s being cute, and he knows if he smiles at his phone right now, he’s fucked, so he puts it down on the nightstand and turns to smile at Adam instead. She’s on tour, he’ll text her later.

It’s better to keep these things separate, anyway. It makes him feel a little less guilty that way. If he and Adam are in a bubble where nobody matters but them, he’s not doing anything wrong when he’s with Adam. And most of the time, it feels that way. Most of the time, he loses himself so entirely in Adam that he doesn’t have time to think about the rest of the world. Sometimes they get so wrapped up talking about music they forget to eat. Sometimes Blake looks at the clock and realizes they’ve been making out for an hour and nobody’s clothes have even come off. Sometimes Blake looks down and is surprised to see his own wedding ring.

He turns back to face Adam, who’s still lying in bed but watching Blake intently. And before Blake meets his eyes, he takes a moment to take in the entire scene—Adam all skin and ink, sheet half-draped over him, morning light slanting in the window. He takes a moment to see it, to appreciate it, to let the bubble close around him.

He looks Adam in the eye.

“Not gonna answer?” Adam asks, his voice dull and inflectionless.

Blake settles back into bed, reaching for Adam. “No,” he says.

Adam fidgets against him. “You sure?”

Blake sighs. It’s a whole lot easier when Adam’s not trying to pop the bubble from the inside. “Breakfast?” he asks, ignoring the question. After a second, Adam smiles back begrudgingly. And everything’s fine.

For now.

 

* * *

 

 

They’ve barely made it to the bedroom when Adam is starting again, all heat and energy. Blake has missed this, missed _him_. Part of him wants to just give in and let Adam take charge. Let it be fast and feral and incredible. But he can’t. So he meets Adam’s jumpy fingers, pressing arms, flushed skin with calm, measured movements. Hands on hips, anchoring Adam’s frenzied legs, always poised for fight or flight. Probably fight, today. When Adam kisses him, it’s all tongue and teeth, and Blake refuses to match pace. He counts backwards from ten in his head, opening his mouth slowly, allowing Adam to explore bit by bit.

Adam pulls at Blake’s belt loops and tries to move backwards. Blake yields, but only a little, slowly walking Adam backwards towards the bed. And though he can feel Adam’s rushing blood through his skin, can feel the way Adam wants to go go go and be done, Adam follows his lead. Matches pace. And even the idea of it is so much for Blake to handle, Adam giving in and doing this the way Blake wants. The timing, the speed, the energy. It’s all lining up.

He pushes Adam down onto the bed with more force than he means to, but it doesn’t seem to matter. This is happening now, the way it’s supposed to. And he’s on the bed, kissing his way down Adam’s neck and chest, and Adam’s got a hand loosely threaded through his hair, and it’s so much, so heady that Blake feels he could die right this second, right now, and be fine with it because _he got to feel this way_. It’s more than most people get in a lifetime.

Blake unbuckles Adam’s belt and tugs it off, still laying kisses across Adam’s abs. He always, stupidly expects to taste the ink of Adam’s tattoos, but no. Just sweat and skin and Adam. He unbuttons and unzips Adam’s pants, and shimmies them and his boxer briefs partway down his thighs.  

Adam’s watching him with heavy-lidded eyes, and Blake stares into them as he takes Adam’s cock into his mouth. Adam gasps in a ragged sigh in and Blake closes his eyes and loses himself in the taste, the feeling, the weight of Adam’s cock. In the noises Adam starts making as Blake goes to work. In the way Adam’s fist clenches, then loosens, then clenches again in his hair. Blake lets himself fall back on long-dormant muscle memory as he breathes in through his nose and revels in the sensation of it all. He was always good at this. Start a rhythm, disrupt it. Bring Adam to the gasping edge, then let off, pull him back. Adam’s putty beneath his sure mouth and hands. And Blake could do this for ever, for fucking ever, but after a while he realizes that Adam couldn’t, and Blake still has more plans.

He withdraws from Adam’s cock, inciting pitiful whimpers from Adam, and pulls himself back up the bed, making a beeline for his nightstand. He opens the drawer and pulls out lube and a condom before making his way back down Adam’s body, where he takes a moment to pull Adam’s pants and underwear all the way off before shucking his own.

 

* * *

 

**April 2012**

 

There are rare moments of peace, Blake finds. Moments where the chaos of his life stops, where everything crystallizes and he is here and now and happy. Moments with Miranda, usually. Moments with Adam. This is one of those moments.

They’re lying in bed, Adam’s head tucked into his shoulder, and suddenly Blake feels more present than he has in weeks, full of something that feels eerily similar to joy. Something even like hope. He smiles to himself and kisses Adam’s hair, squeezing him just a little tighter. It’s always best to soak these moments in while they last. Calling attention to them only serves to ruin them.

But Adam must feel it too, because he tilts his head up and kisses Blake once on the lips, slow and tender and delicate, and they smile at each other and the moment stretches between them like taffy, and for a second Blake swears it’s about to solidify, to take real shape and form and go from a moment to…hell, to all of time.

But Adam breaks it.

“I love you,” he says, and it’s like a gust of air has blown through Blake’s head, slamming shut all the doors and windows that were letting the sunlight in.

“Adam…” he says, and he doesn’t know how to complete the sentence. It’s a question and it’s a warning, and it’s a desperate plea for the moment back.

But Adam’s not so willing. “I love you,” he says again.

“I love you too,” Blake says, because he does.

“Then why are we doing this?” Adam asks, propping himself up on his elbow and looking Blake in the eye. “Why are we cheating and hiding, like it’s some kind of—”

“Adam.” Blake knows he should sit up and have this conversation seriously, but he’s tired. They haven’t even started and he’s tired. He stays leaned back on the pillows. “Come on,” he says. “You know it’s not that easy.”

“It can be if we let it,” Adam says.

“What do you mean?” Blake asks, dully.

“I broke up with Anne.”

Adam says it in a way that’s almost smug, but Blake hears his voice shaking underneath.

Blake swallows hard. There’s nothing he can say to that—nothing he has to offer. “And?” he asks. He wants his moment back, but if he’s not going to get that, if he has to have the conversation, it might as well be all the way out there.

“And I want to be with you,” Adam says. He sounds annoyed. Time for a Hail-Mary.

Blake runs his index finger down the column of Adam’s spine. “You’re with me,” he says.

Adam scowls and pulls away, sitting up. “You know what I mean, Blake,” he says.

Blake sighs and sits up as well. “What do you want me to say, Adam?” he asks.

Adam smirks. “Well shucks, Adam,” he drawls. “I wanna be with you too. I’m leavin’ Miranda tonight. Yeehaw!”

Blake doesn’t laugh. It’s really not all that funny.

“Something like that, maybe,” Adam says, and he can’t keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“I can’t say that,” Blake says softly.

“I figured.”

“I love Miranda,” Blake says. Because he does.

“You love me too,” Adam says, and Blake can’t tell if it’s a question or not, but he nods.

“Not enough,” Adam says, and again, Blake can’t tell if it’s a question. And he doesn’t want to answer, so he decides it’s not. He reaches for Adam’s hand, threads his fingers through Adam’s.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Adam nods but doesn’t answer.

There are moments of peace, moments where the spinning of the world seems to stop and you have to live forever in the profundity of what you’ve done or haven’t done. And when the world starts spinning again, Adam’s going to get his things together and he’s going to walk out and they’ll never have one of these moments again. And that’s the choice that Blake is making.

 

* * *

 

 

“Blake—” Adam says, and it comes out choked. Blake can’t help but smile as he coats his fingers with lube.

“Mmmm?” he responds.

Adam doesn’t so much answer as grunt when Blake starts fingering around his ass. He’s tracing tighter and tighter circles around Adam’s hole and when he finally dips his index finger in, Adam moans.

There’s more resistance than he’s used to—it’s been a long time since they’ve done this, after all. But as he eases his finger in to the first knuckle, keeping an eye on Adam’s reaction, he feels himself tensing up. If it feels so tight on warm on his finger, how’s it going to feel on his cock? He’s already hard, been hard since Adam started making noise. Much as he’s determined to take his time, he’s starting to get a little antsy. Still, he works Adam open as methodically as he knows how, pausing to coat his fingers in more lube and working off Adam’s reactions. Finally, Adam’s breathless and panting and ready, so fucking ready, and Blake rolls on the condom and reaches for the lube again.

There’s a moment, a moment when he’s kissed his way back up Adam’s body, kissed him fully and deeply and breathlessly, when he’s lined up at Adam’s entrance but not inside yet, where they’re just looking at each other, and in that moment Blake feels entirely outside of time. They could be here, now, or in some new house twenty years down the line, or in Blake’s trailer almost four years ago. And Blake throws himself into the moment, throws himself into the timelessness of it all, the story of it all, country boy meets rock boy and everything ends peacefully. Blake loses himself in the moment, and when he looks into Adam’s eyes, he can see that Adam is right there with him.

He eases himself slowly into Adam. Adam winces and hisses, but nods at Blake and digs his fingernails into his back all the same. Blake continues pressing into him, slowly, and it’s excruciating how good it feels, how Adam clenches around him. He bottoms out, and Adam moans, biting his lip. It’s so hot Blake can barely stand it. He waits a second, then begins to move. It’s fucking heaven, everything around them is fading and Blake can’t see or hear anything except Adam, exists only around Adam, inside Adam.

“Adam—” he gasps out, not sure what’s next but sure that it’s praise.

“ _Fuck_ , Blake.” Adam matches his breathless tone, eyes closed tightly, holding onto Blake for dear life.

“God, I love you.”

Adam’s eyes snap open even as he moans. Blake meets his eyes and keeps moving.

“Blake—” Adam says, cutting off with a sharp intake of breath. “I don’t—”

“Just say it,” Blake says, his voice much lower than he means it to come out. He slows his rhythm, but doesn’t stop. “I know— _God_ —I know you don’t.”

He sucks a line of kisses into Adam’s neck. “Just say it,” he say. “For me.”

Adam’s eyes are glazed for a moment, and Blake, for want of something better to do, picks up his pace again.

Adam gasps. He arches his back and Blake watches his eyes flutter closed.

“I love you,” he says, softly.

It would be enough to make Blake come then and there, if it were true. And if Blake closes his eyes and kisses Adam hard enough, he can just about pretend it is.

He breaks his rhythm, then picks up again, and he’s close now, he’s so close, and if this is the last time, they’re going to fucking come together. He reaches between them for Adam’s cock, and matches upstroke to thrust. It doesn’t take long—Blake’s gone first, and then Adam comes violently all over Blake’s hand.

 

* * *

 

 

**September 2015**

 

He should never have started this. Blake knew that he had fucked up, he had blown his chance. He knew it wasn’t likely that Adam would give him another. He should never have brought it all up again—he couldn’t imagine how much it would hurt to be rejected. But it _does_. He feels so trapped in the small space of Adam’s trailer. He should have done this somewhere he was more comfortable. Home team advantage. He probably still would have lost.

“Blake,” Adam is saying, and Blake hates the way he’s saying it, the voice he’s using. It’s his serious voice, and Blake doesn’t usually have to hear Adam’s serious voice.

“Come on,” Adam says, and for once there’s no smirk on his face, and somehow that’s so much fucking worse than if he was laughing in Blake’s face. He’s trying so hard to say it without saying it.

Blake swallows hard. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah.” He can’t think of anything else to say. Part of him wants to push it more. Because Adam should have to say it to his face, the way he made Blake do. He’s trying to hurt Blake without hurting him. And Blake’s hurt. But he doesn’t know how to push it any further. Besides, right now he’d rather end this conversation flat out.

“Look—” Adam starts.

“Yeah,” Blake repeats. He doesn’t want the sympathy on Adam’s face now. He wants out. He blew it, it’s over, the end. He just wants it done.

“Where was this three years ago?” Adam pushes forward.

“Yeah,” Blake says again, a plea to end the conversation.

“I’m sorry—”

“Stop.” A new word. Adam shuts up. “I get it,” Blake continues. Because he does get it. And he has no one to blame but himself. For blowing it the first time around. For bringing it up now. He basically asked for the pain he’s getting. But he doesn’t have to stand here and take it.

“I’m gonna go.” He doesn’t wait for a response.

“Blake.” Adam calls after him, entreating him to stay, to hear the rest of the excuses, the platitudes, the promises that their friendship won’t change. But Blake doesn’t need it. He doesn’t need to hear why, doesn’t need to hear that Adam cares about him, that they’ll be fine. It all amounts to the same thing: Blake doesn’t get a second chance, and he has to go home and live with the knowledge that he ruined what was probably the best thing he ever had. That he let timing and circumstance stand in for what should have been his gut, his trust, his feeling that what they had was right and real, and could go beyond the moments in bed. There’s a whole lot of stuff Blake already knows. He doesn’t need to be told.

So he doesn’t turn back. He can’t turn back. He’s a grown man and he’s not going to let Adam Levine see him cry.

 

* * *

 

Blake strokes Adam through the orgasm before slowly pulling out and rolling off him. He feels it again, like he could die right here and now, this purely content, and it wouldn’t be a bad thing. In fact, he thinks, it might be a good thing. To avoid the aftermath. Die of post-coital bliss before he has to watch Adam walk out on him for the last time. Unfortunately, he doesn’t die. Instead, he feels his haze lift as he watches Adam.

Adam’s eyes are still closed, but Blake can tell where his thoughts are by the slightest changes in his body—can see the tendons in his legs tightening up. Fight’s over. Time for flight. Blake literally watches the nervous energy travel up Adam’s body as muscles clench and stillness ceases. It’s like he’s very slowly starting to vibrate at some high frequency—Blake can’t see the motion, but he can sense it in the air.

Finally, Adam opens his eyes, and they’re full of doubt. Well, maybe not doubt. It could be anger. It could even be instant regret. But it’s definitely not the sheer contentedness Blake is feeling. Adam’s so fucking _expressive_. He can’t hide anything. Blake used to be grateful for that—no discretion, no secrets. But now, as Blake watches the debate over how long to stay rage in Adam’s head, he wishes that just for once, the man could keep a poker face. They’re not timeless. They’re not in a moment together. They’re not a them. They’re not Adam and Blake anymore, if they ever even wore. Adam is Adam and Blake is Blake and any second now Adam’s going to get up, wipe the jizz off his stomach, get dressed, and walk out, and they’ll never own another moment together. And there’s so much that Blake wants to say before that happens. How he’s not sorry any of it happened. How he _is_ sorry that he made the wrong choice. How he wishes he could go back.

“Thanks,” he says instead. “You didn’t have to…you know.”

Adam smiles at him, but it’s a sad smile. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I…you know.”

Blake doesn’t. But he won’t make Adam say it, say whatever lukewarm reassurance about their friendship he’s forming.

Blake sits up on the side of the bed and makes a grab for his boxers. If Adam’s going to leave, he’s not going to leave Blake alone in bed. They’re both getting up, they’re both getting dressed. Blake is not going to be the victim anymore. Anything that comes next, he brought on himself.

They get dressed in silence, trailing downstairs one after the other to retrieve their shirts. Blake walks Adam to the door without really knowing why.

“See you later,” he says sheepishly from the doorway, as Adam walks towards his car.

“Yeah,” Adam says, unlocking the door and opening it.

He pauses before getting in. Blake watches him warily.

“Drinks next week?” Adam asks, a smile spreading across his face that Blake can almost believe is genuine.

Blake nods, his throat too thick to speak.

They’ll have those drinks. Probably. They’ll be fine, probably. It was worth it, probably.

Blake watches Adam peel out and down the driveway. He can see it perfectly, even through the smoke in his eyes.  


End file.
